divya

[కుమార్]

Suddenly, the sharp ring of Divya’s phone sliced through the dark rooftop silence.

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‎It was coming from downstairs — left on the dining table where she’d been correcting papers.

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‎Divya’s body jerked like she’d been slapped again.

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‎Monu.

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‎If the phone kept ringing loud enough… if it woke him…

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‎Panic flooded her instantly — sharper than shame, stronger than revulsion.

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‎She wrenched herself out of the beggar’s loose grip — his hands sliding off her breasts with a rough drag — and stumbled backward toward the staircase.

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‎Without a word, without looking back at his ugly bearded face or the hard cock still jutting from his open lungi, she ran.

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‎Bare feet slapped concrete steps — , breasts bouncing painfully free under the thin fabric.

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‎She flew down the narrow stairs, heart in her throat, praying Monu stayed asleep.

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‎The phone rang twice more before she reached the hall.

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‎She snatched it up — screen glowing: Ranjith.

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‎She answered on the last ring, voice breathless, trembling, trying to sound normal.

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‎“H-hello… Ranjith ji?”

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‎His voice came through calm, tired, familiar — the same voice that kissed her goodnight every night.

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‎“Divya? Sorry itna late call kiya. Mom ki report aa gayi hai… sab normal hai bas thoda check-up extra kar rahe hain. Kal subah tak aa jaunga. Monu so gaya?”

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‎Divya pressed the phone hard against her ear, one hand clutching the edge of the dining table for balance. Her legs still shook.

‎The faint ache from the beggar’s earlier slap lingered on her ass.

‎Her nipples were still hard and sensitive from his rough thumbs.

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‎“Haan… so gaya,” she whispered. “Sab theek hai yahan.”

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‎They talked for one minute — short, ordinary things: Monu’s college, what she cooked, when he’d eat dinner tomorrow.

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‎Ranjith’s voice was steady. Loving. Oblivious.

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‎Divya answered in monosyllables — “Haan… theek hai… haan…” — while tears burned behind her eyes.

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‎When he said “Good night, take care,” she managed a soft “Good night, Ranjith ji… jaldi aaiye.”

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‎She ended the call.

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‎The screen went dark.

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‎Silence rushed back in.

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‎Divya stood there — breathing hard, nighty askew, hair tangled from the rooftop wind.

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‎Then she looked toward the front door.

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‎The beggar was already moving.

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‎He had come down the stairs quietly while she was on the phone — stick tapping softly, lungi re-tied .

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‎He reached the gate now — didn’t look back at first.

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‎Then he paused.

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‎Turned just enough for the porch light to catch half his ugly, bearded face.

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‎He gave her one long, slow look — eyes raking over her disheveled nighty, her flushed cheeks, the way her chest still rose and fell too fast.

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‎No words.

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‎Just that look — satisfied, patient, promising more.

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‎Then he pushed the gate open, shuffled out into the lane, and disappeared into the shadows toward the main road.